


Soar

by TheAsexualofSpades



Series: Wings [2]
Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Fluff, Found Family, Gen, M/M, Multi, SO MUCH FLUFF, Sympathetic Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders, Sympathetic Deceit | Janus Sanders, Winged Anxiety | Virgil Sanders, can be platonic or romantic you decide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-12
Updated: 2020-10-12
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:07:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26961127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheAsexualofSpades/pseuds/TheAsexualofSpades
Summary: Virgil loves it when the others take care of his wings.
Relationships: Anxiety | Virgil & Creativity | Roman & Deceit & Logic | Logan & Morality | Patton & Thomas Sanders, Anxiety | Virgil Sanders & Everyone, Anxiety | Virgil Sanders/Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders, Anxiety | Virgil Sanders/Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders, Anxiety | Virgil Sanders/Logic | Logan Sanders, Anxiety | Virgil Sanders/Morality | Patton Sanders, DLAMP, LAMP - Relationship, dlampr
Series: Wings [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1967467
Comments: 26
Kudos: 495
Collections: Gay Fanfiction, RandomFanfictionsE.g.Anime





	Soar

**Author's Note:**

> thanks to Sadsappylee on tumblr for the request! we're on a rare fluff kick in this fandom it seems so we're gonna RIDE THAT SHIT

**Sadsappylee promp** t: Hey! I know you like j u s t published unfurl and fly but I just thought you should know L O V E it and if you still have prompts open pleeeaaaase just do like a super cute, fluffy sequel, your writing is so wonderful!

* * *

Virgil loves it when Patton takes care of his wings.

Patton sits behind him on the floor, chatting happily as he brushes through the feathers, carefully plucking out the ones that come loose and lying them in a pile next to his side. They’ve been coming out less and less after they started grooming them regularly, the wings retaining more of the oil to make the feathers stay strong. The brush is Virgil’s favorite, with the thick wooden spokes and _no_ plastic, so nothing gets stuck or rubs too harshly against his back.

Patton always knows just how to brush, too; not too hard, not too soft. The spokes glide through the wings, around the feathers, glistening slightly with the oil. Sometimes, when Virgil’s wings are tired and he can’t quite hold them as stretched as he needs to, Patton will hold the up while he brushes, careful not to bend any of the feathers out of place. Patton’s hands are always so _warm._

Virgil shifts as the spokes reach through the ends of his feathers down his back, letting out a please hum. Patton giggles, doing it again.

“You doing okay, kiddo?”

“Mmf,” is Virgil’s articulate response, “’s good.”

“Good. I’m almost done.” A few more strokes of the brush and Patton sets it aside, bringing his hands up to take Virgil’s in his. “How do they feel, kiddo?”

Virgil flaps experimentally. “Good.”

“I’m glad.” Patton shifts up closer behind him, his back almost meeting Patton’s chest. “You all done, then, or…?”

This. This is the part that’s Virgil’s favorite. When Patton’s technically done but he offers to keep going.

“Can you…” Virgil swallows. “…can you…do the thing with the brush again?”

“Where I brush your back and your wings?”

“Mhmm.”

“Sure thing, kiddo, just let me—here.”

A second later and he hears the familiar scrape of the brush and sighs, hearing Patton giggle behind him.

“You just let me know when you’re ready to stop, okay?”

“’S not gonna be any time soon.”

“That’s okay with me!”

Virgil loves it when Patton takes care of his wings.

Virgil loves it when Logan takes care of his wings.

Logan always has him stand, just so he can see what he’s doing a little better. He walks around Virgil as he works, keeping his free hand somewhere on Virgil, on his arm, his back, his waist, his shoulder, so Virgil always knows where he is, even with his eyes closed. He strokes through the feathers with his hand, moving slowly, methodically, making sure to gather oil from the glands to spread to the feathers. He stays close, close enough that Virgil can grab onto him if he needs to.

“Ah!”

“My apologies,” Logan murmurs as Virgil’s knees wobble, “I should have warned you.”

“No, no, it’s fine, it didn’t hurt.”

“Just sensitive?”

Virgil nods. “Just sensitive.”

Logan’s free hand traces soothing circles into the skin above Virgil’s hip, his other hovering by the gland. “May I?”

“…yeah.”

“I’ll be careful.”

Even though he’s ready for it, even though Logan’s touch is perfect, Virgil still has to steady himself against Logan as his thumb swipes lightly over the gland. The rush it sends into his back makes him twitch, simultaneously trying to jump and collapse. Logan chuckles, steadying Virgil as much as he can as he starts to spread the oil through the wings.

“We’re almost there, I just need to do the marginal covets.”

“No rush,” Virgil mumbles, his eyes drifting closed again.

“Well, it wouldn’t do to have you falling asleep standing up, dear heart, you’re not a horse.”

“No, thank _fuck_ for that.”

Logan’s chest—since when is he leaning up against Logan like that?—rumbles happily as his hands continue their work. “I’ll hold you up while I finish, then it might be time for you to have a nap.”

“But I just got my wings done.”

“Then you will sleep on your stomach.” A hand cards lightly through his hair, blissfully free from the oil. “At any rate, you’re about to fall asleep on _me,_ which will not end well for either of us.”

“Mmm, you sure?” Virgil turns his head and nuzzles into Logan’s neck.

“Considering I am not currently in a position to hold you if you decide to go limp,” comes the wry response, “yes.”

Virgil’s answer is to wrap his arms around Logan’s waist, smiling at the soft squeak of surprise. “There. All fixed.”

Logan’s fond sigh ruffles the top of Virgil’s hair and he feels both of Logan’s hands start finishing up his wings. “Alright, then. I can see you’re not going anywhere.”

This is Virgil’s _favorite_ part of having Logan help him. Because Logan, when confronted with any sleepy side, will melt and let them cuddle him until they both fall asleep.

“Sleep,” Virgil mutters, nuzzling into Logan again, “c’mon, L.”

“In a moment, you little spider,” Logan chides without any real heat, “let me finish first.”

Virgil loves it when Logan takes care of his wings.

Virgil loves it when Roman takes care of his wings.

Roman, who whips up a fucking _massage_ table and has Virgil lie down on it, helping him spread his wings out until Virgil doesn’t have to hold them as they lie there. Roman talks to him the whole time, especially since Virgil can’t see him, and works his way from tip to tip, not leaving a single feather untouched. Virgil’s wings will sometimes twitch on the table, just from all of the _everything,_ and unlike when he’s holding them out himself, he’s got no defense for why he’s moving other than it feels _really good._

Roman chuckles as Virgil’s wing trembles under his fingers, lightly scratching the spot again. “Right here, Stormcloud? Is this it?”

“ _Roman,_ ” Virgil whines, “stop teasing and just—“

“Just what, Stormcloud,” Roman sings, reaching over to stroke the same spot on the other wing, smiling when they both twitch, “just what?”

“I-it—I— _fuck—“_

Roman slows, removing his hands from the feathers and placing them gently on Virgil’s back, rubbing gently. “Too much?”

“…just a bit.”

“Alright. I’ll have to remember that.”

As he starts brushing his fingers through the alulas, Virgil shudders from the weight of his hands just _there._ You’d think that Logan would be the one meticulously keeping track of all of the sensitive areas of the wings, how to best clean them, how to make sure it wasn’t too much. But no, it’s _Roman._

Virgil’s half certain he’s got a list written down somewhere of just what touch on what spot makes him get what reaction. Of how a quick flutter of his fingers just under the primary covets gets him a sharp exhale. Of how a slow stroke of his thumb across the oil glands gets him a sleepy hum. Of how a firm rub of the wing joint right where his wings meet his back makes Virgil shudder, a whimper escaping his throat if he’s caught too unawares.

But there’s one spot that’s undeniably Virgil’s favorite and Roman sure as hell knows it.

“Stormcloud,” Roman murmurs, his hands stroking firmly up and down Virgil’s lower back, “Stormcloud, do you want me to play with you? Just a little?”

“Mm,” Virgil hums, his head already buzzing from just Roman’s hands on his back, “mhmm.”

“Alright, here we go…” Roman’s fingers start to glide up Virgil’s back, over the wing joint, nails scraping gently over the gland, making Virgil jerk. “Shh, shh, we’re almost there, be _patient,_ Stormcloud…”

Roman’s fingers wiggle into the pit of his wings, right into the axillaries, and Virgil’s gone.

He _melts,_ right into the table, right into Roman’s hands, as those fingers wiggle and scritch and tickle.

It’s a curious sensation, really, it’s fucking weird; it feels like every nerve in his body is alive and being caressed at the same time, even though Roman’s just focusing on this one spot. He can feel it through the table, through the feathers covering his back, even inside his _head._ He’s hyperaware of _everything,_ the cool smoothness of the table, the light brushing of his feathers against his arms and his back, and Roman, right there, right behind him. It’s almost as though he’s tingling where Roman’s _just_ out of reach, _just_ not touching him, his fingers the only thing proving that link.

“Just here, isn’t it Stormcloud,” comes the soft rumble of Roman’s voice in his ears, “just here, isn’t it? This little spot right here?”

“ _Mmmm!”_

“I wish you could see your face right now, Stormcloud, you look so happy.” Roman’s voice comes from his other side now, where—where _is_ he?

“Is that all it takes,” Roman murmurs, and Virgil’s given up trying to figure out where he is, “just give you a tickle here and you’ll melt into a little puddle?”

Virgil is _fundamentally_ incapable of words right now, thank you very much. Luckily, Roman doesn’t seem to mind.

“You just lie there and fly, little Stormcloud,” he promises, his lips pressing to Virgil’s neck for just a moment, “and let me take care of you.”

Virgil loves it when Roman takes care of his wings.

Virgil loves it when Remus takes care of his wings.

Remus doesn’t really, uh, _clean_ as much as the others do, he more does the, uh…workout part of it. He’ll take Virgil into the Imagination, into the _safer_ parts of the Imagination, and they’ll start flying. Remus just kind of hurls himself into the air with tentacles that grow out of his back and swing along through the branches of trees.

“Keep up!” He swings around another, the branch he just left almost smacking Virgil in the face.

“You _need_ the trees,” Virgil hollers back, swerving around, “they just get in my way.”

“Then fucking go above them,” Remus cackles, throwing himself even _higher,_ “I’ll get up there!”

“You’re gonna fucking _break_ something, that’s what you’re gonna do!”

“Oh, ye of little faith!”

“My fucking _job_ is to be of little faith, Remus!”

“Good point!”

A point, however, that does not stop Remus from launching himself high, high, high into the air as Virgil soars up to meet him, the air fishing through his feather as he beats his wings.

…yeah okay, he’s gotta admit. Flying’s pretty cool.

Remus laughs uproariously beside him as they manage to make it consistently above the tree line, Virgil spreading his wings out and catching an updraft as Remus swings, occasionally dropping out of sight.

“Isn’t this much better than just _not?_ ”

Remus sticks his tongue out. “You don’t want to run the risk of running headfirst into a tree?”

“...no?”

“Boring.”

“ _Smart._ ”

“Still boring!”

“Smart doesn’t mean boring!”

“Not all the time, no, but in this case it does.”

Virgil rolls his eyes and spots the end of the forest. “There!”

“Home stretch! Race you!”

“What? That’s not—“ Too late. There Remus goes. Well, Virgil’s not gonna give him the win that easily.

By the time they land—at the same time, mind you—Virgil’s got bits of leaf and branch stuck in his wings, but he’s red-faced and panting triumphantly. Next to him, Remus collapses into a pile of breathless giggles, drunk on the adrenaline rush. He slaps the ground next to him with a hand.

Virgil collapses gratefully, letting Remus pick out the debris the got stuck in his feathers that the wind didn’t blow out.

“I won.”

“The _fuck_ you did.”

Virgil loves it when Remus takes care of his wings.

Virgil loves it when Janus takes care of his wings.

Janus is the first one who ever _found_ Virgil’s wings in need of cleaning. When they were still young, when Virgil was just barely old enough to recognize what was _scary_ and what was _not,_ Janus happened upon a little scared bundle of feathers. He gathered him up, helped him calm down, and carefully, _carefully_ groomed his wings. Even now, so many years later, there are very few things that can calm Virgil down quite like that. It’s the only time Janus lets anyone sit on his lap.

“Sweetie,” Janus murmurs, one pair of his arms tucking Virgil’s around his chest, “you hold on here, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Good.” He feels the mist of the spray bottle on his wings and hisses a little. “I know it’s cold.”

“It’s fine.”

“Mm.” Janus shifts, pulling Virgil a little more onto his lap, letting Virgil tuck his head into the crook of his neck and squeeze. “Do you want to talk about it?”

This, also, is quite possibly Virgil’s favorite part of having Janus take care of his wings. Unlike the others, where they’re always on one side of him, Janus is _everywhere,_ to his back, carefully tending to his wings, on his sides, holding him firmly, under him, letting Virgil cuddle up in his lap, over him, his cheek pressed against the crown of Virgil’s head, and in front of him, a strong chest for Virgil to lean against. He’s completely encased in Janus’s arms—all six of them—and nothing can hurt him here.

It’s one of the safest places Virgil knows.

“If you don’t want to talk,” Janus soothes, “you don’t have to. You just hang on and focus on me, okay sweetie? I’m right here, you don’t have to worry about anything right now.”

That sounds pretty damn good to Virgil. He closes his eyes and slumps into Janus’s hold, feeling the slight catch of Janus’s gloves against his feathers. Janus doesn’t speak, doesn’t hum as he works, just breathes. If Virgil concentrates, he can feel the steady rhythm of Janus’s heart against his own chest.

Janus knows _exactly_ what he’s doing, never lingering too briefly or too long in any one place, deftly adjusting any crooked feathers and making sure everything is where it’s supposed to be. The three pairs of hands make it simple, easy, efficient, and sometimes that’s just what Virgil wants.

Sometimes, it will be just two pairs of hands in his wings, the third holding Virgil by the waist, pulling him close.

Sometimes, it will be just one pair of hands in his wings, one holding Virgil by the waist, the other holding his hands tightly, grounding him here, now, with Janus.

And sometimes, _very rarely,_ but sometimes, it will be just one hand, just one, stroking through his feathers as the others hold Virgil close, by his waist, by his hands, and one cupping the back of his head, letting him cry everything out.

This time, he doesn’t need that, just needs the comfort of one pair slung about his waist. He mumbles tiredly, his chest aching from finally being able to breathe for the first time all day.

“Hush, sweetie,” Janus’s voice comes drifting in from somewhere in the warm cocoon, “everything’s alright now.”

Virgil loves it when Janus takes care of his wings.

Virgil loves it when his family takes care of his wings.

Movie nights have become movie-and-grooming nights, where the couch is foregone in favor of constructing an elaborate pillow and blanket next on the floor in front of the TV. Virgil is always in the middle, his wings outstretched to either side, as the others fit themselves in around him. Normally, he ends up with Janus behind him, a pair of arms slung around his waist, the others flitting about from his hands to his head to his wings.

Roman is normally on the right, carefully preening through the covets. Every now and then he’ll sneak his hand into the axillaries and scratch, but not often, and never a lot. He understands. Patton’s normally over there too, near the tip of his wings, stroking through the very ends of the feathers to make sure not one is out of place, unoiled or unstraightened. The primaries gleam by the time he’s finished and he keeps running his fingers through them until Virgil’s had enough.

On Janus’s other side is normally Logan. He’s very gentle about getting the oils from the glands and spreading them through the feathers, always in coordination with the others so they don’t accidentally overwhelm Virgil. Next to him is Remus, dutifully picking out even the most stubborn of detritus, right down to the little speck of something that’s been itching horribly for three days. He always checks to make sure Virgil’s wings aren’t twisted or bent, having him stretch every so often to make sure.

Virgil tries to watch the movie on these nights but so often he _can’t,_ his eyes falling shut and his head slumping as the hands stroke and groom and pat. And they’re always so _kind_ while they do it, murmuring reassurances and chuckling softly when he lets out a noise.

“So pretty,” Patton murmurs, nudging Roman, who winks at Virgil’s flushed face.

“No,” he whines, wanting to bury his face in his hands but his arms are lead.

“I’m afraid you are, in fact, quite pretty,” Logan says matter-of-factly, only to sigh when Virgil keeps making noise, “you _do_ realize you’re only proving my point, dear heart.”

“He can’t help it,” Janus whispers, “can you, sweetie? That’s okay. You just sit here and let us spoil you, hmm?”

Virgil used to be the last one awake on movie nights, but now, he’s lucky if he makes it past the first half-hour. None of them mind, turning down the volume a little and cuddling closer to their sleeping puddle of feathers. They keep up the soothing touches, nothing too intense to wake him up, just a little here and there, keeping him asleep until they all doze off in a pile of blankets and pillow in front of the flickering screen.

Virgil loves it when his family takes care of his wings.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Come yell at me on tumblr. 
> 
> https://a-small-batch-of-dragons.tumblr.com/


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